After the Rain, At the End of the World
by whathobertie
Summary: After the accident, everything is different for Cuddy. Gen, House/Cuddy friendship, drama/angst, no spoilers, prompt: Change.


**TITLE:** After the Rain, At the End of the World**  
GENRE:** Drama/Angst**  
CHARACTERS: **Cuddy, House, Wilson**  
PAIRING:** Gen, House/Cuddy friendship**  
RATING:** PG-13**  
SPOILERS:** none**  
WORDS:** 1,500**  
SUMMARY:** After the accident, everything is different for Cuddy.**  
A/N: **100 Situations Challenge, Prompt #035: Change.

* * *

After the accident, everything is different.

She opens the door, when he knocks on it with his cane for the tenth time and she just can't take it anymore. Her headache gets worse with every loud thud. She wants to stop him, tell him that he should go, break down in his arms, or beat up the world with his cane. If she could do it all at once, she would.

And so they just stand there, like a perfect picture of misery, and he looks over her shoulder past her. No word, no touch, no comfort.

He turns around and mumbles, "Sorry," as he limps down her driveway.

* * *

After the rain, everything is different.

He asks her what she's still doing in the hospital at midnight. She asks the counter question.

He asks her if she's still in pain. She negates.

He asks her if it's still as bad as shortly after. Without her moving her lips, her crouched body behind the desk tells him everything he needs to know, while she shakes her head absently-minded.

She puts the administrative paperwork right in front of him and doesn't even live with the illusion that he will actually deal with it.

With probing eyes he looks up to her. "Do you need a prescription?"

She turns around and approaches the door quickly. "I'm not in pain, House."

The knock on his door is so tentative that he's almost sure he just dreamt it. But to his surprise, she is actually standing there—sweat pants, tousled hair and a pullover with sleeves that are too long.

"Did you drive like this?" he asks, and he doesn't really mean her clothes, but more the pain-filled expression on her face.

Her slender body moves past him into the warmth of the apartment when he steps aside. His cane dangles somewhere above her on the door frame.

Completely at a loss, House is standing in front of her and waits for her to say something. The last few weeks have showed him that there is nothing left for him to say. He has said it all. Finally, he decides to count to three and then just go away. Going away is always easy.

One.

Two.

Three.

Only when he already walks across the door frame into his bedroom, Cuddy speaks in a restrained tone: "I need morphine."

He comes back and looks for it in a familiar place.

* * *

"Cuddy's not here," Wilson says. He gives House a questioning look.

With mock horror, House looks dramatically under his desk. "Well, she's not here, either."

Wilson looks at him somehow angrily and leaves the office without a word, without a clue, without any courage left.

House waits until he's completely out of sight and dials her number. He's a little relieved when he hears her tired voice at the other end. She tells him she just overslept, but he doesn't believe a word of it.

* * *

He watches her for a while as she tries to climb the ladder in order to reach one of the upper folders. She doesn't notice him; he doesn't notice that everybody else is staring at him instead.

Eventually, he enters her office and closes the door gently enough to not startle her. "Let me, I'll get it."

"No," she hisses through barely opened lips.

"That wasn't an offer. It was an order."

"And I am your boss, and don't have to take any orders from you."

He just shrugs and takes a step back, but he doesn't have any intention of leaving. Uninvolved, he watches her struggling and reaching out her finger tips, which miss the folder again and again by only a few inches.

"You can't do this on your own," he notes calmly.

"Don't tell me what I can't do!"

* * *

When she's standing in front of his door again, it is like déjà vu—sweat pants, tousled hair and a pullover with sleeves that are too long.

"I seem to be a much sought-after guy recently."

She looks at him, he stares back.

"I need—"

He shakes his head and leaves her unfinished sentence in the air between them.

"But—"

"I can't do this."

"There's no other way," she whispers desperately.

"Then you should go to somebody who is an expert and get a prescription. Therapy maybe."

Her eyes divert to the floor. There's so little space between her and his feet that it looks like they are close to each other. "I thought I was with an expert here."

He groans quietly and reluctantly steps aside. "I can make you a tea," he offers awkwardly.

She doesn't react.

House feels the urge to call Wilson, so he can deal with her, with this. "Heating pad?"

She looks at him, first bewildered, then appalled, and finally shouts, "That doesn't help, House!"

He takes a step back and is lost for words. With his eyes wide open, he just simply stares at her. "You need help, Cuddy," escapes him after a few seconds in which he tries to regain his composure.

"You can't make snap judgments about someone else's pain," she hisses, disgusted, and then disappears off into the darkness.

House finally dials Wilson's number.

* * *

Without any clue why they are here, House and Wilson are standing in front of her desk just like two schoolboys, exchanging anxious looks.

"What's up?" Wilson asks cautiously.

"I took a job in Seattle," Cuddy says, while she sorts through files and avoids their eyes. "I will assist the hospital administration at the Virginia Mason."

"This must be a joke," Wilson remarks, shocked, and looks after House, who is already on his way out. "Hey, where are you going now?" he calls somewhat furiously.

"Clinic duty," House replies sarcastically and restrains himself from slamming the door behind him too loudly.

* * *

Her gate appears on the departure board, and it feels like a sudden hit in Wilson's guts. He picks up her hand luggage from the floor and nods at her encouragingly. "Seems like the time has come." He tries to keep the sound of his voice light and smiles a little.

She nods as well, and a sad smile crosses her face.

"I'll carry it up to there," he explains and starts walking slowly towards the security check so she can follow him.

When he puts her bag down again, they stand in front of each other awkwardly. They can feel the words of the other one and yet cannot hear, let alone vocalize them. She approaches him, he approaches her. She puts her arms around his neck, he runs his hand over her back.

"He won't come," Cuddy whispers sadly in his ear and looks over his shoulder.

"Looks like it," Wilson replies with a sorry tone in his voice.

They let each other go and Cuddy self-consciously brushes a tear on her cheek aside. It glistens for a moment in the sunlight falling through the glass front of the hall, before it suddenly disappears.

"Can you carry that?" Wilson asks with a worried look on his face as he lifts the bag from the floor again.

"Yes."

He puts his hand on her back for a last short moment and smiles weakly. "See you soon."

"See you soon."

She doesn't turn around as she passes the security check.

* * *

Her first thought, as she gets out of the aircraft, is that the cold weather here will not be any good for her. It probably means yet more pain, yet more pills, and yet more desperation. The rain, however, that crackled against the window during the landing and ran down in small, round drops, at least suits her mood.

Slowly, she goes down the few steps to the baggage reclaim and hopes that everything goes alright, and she doesn't need to carry her suitcases on her own. The last passenger from her flight overtakes her and glances at Cuddy pitifully, but her eyes say that she doesn't want his help, and so she continues her way deliberately, step by step.

Then she sees him through the glass. Tall and familiar, with an impatient expression on his face. He is standing there. The door opens automatically, and he takes a step towards her with the wheelchair he is pushing with one hand.

"Airport service. Please sit down," he instructs with mock formality and tries to refrain himself from laughing about her dumbfounded face.

"What—"

"Sit down. I'm not going to say it again."

She does as she's told. "How did you even get inside this area here?" she asks, perplexed, while he pushes the wheelchair forward slowly.

"Cripple bonus. You'll get the hang of it eventually," he explains nonchalantly, as he allows a small smile to creep on his face, now that she can't see it.

**END**


End file.
